Chapter 18

18

FELICITY

F elicity's fingers sank into the supple mound of dough with a rhythmic, almost meditative motion. The bakery was her sanctuary, a place where the simple act of kneading could quiet the turmoil in her mind. With each press and fold, the tension in her shoulders ebbed away, replaced by the warmth spreading from her hands into the yielding mass before her.

"Ah, the perfect metaphor for life," she murmured, her voice barely louder than the soft whisper of flour dusting the wooden countertop. "Push, pull, rise."

The morning light streamed through the bakery's quaint front window, casting an ethereal glow throughout her space. Felicity brushed the curls that escaped the haphazard bun with the back of her forearm. She reveled in the solitude, finding solace in the repetitive task that required just enough concentration to keep her thoughts from spiraling but left enough room for her mind to wander.

She thought of Jace and the lodge—pillars of their small community, teetering on the brink of collapse. How could she, a simple baker, rally a town? The prospect was frightening, a stark contrast to the soothing ebb and flow of her current activity.

"Focus, Felicity, just like with your baking," she coached herself internally. "Heel of the dominant hand, push the dough forward, stretch it slightly; fold the stretched portion back; rotate a quarter turn; repeat.”

The dough beneath her hands was taking shape, becoming smooth and elastic. It was almost as if her efforts here, in this quiet morning hour, were kneading courage into her very bones. She took a deep breath, the rich scent of fermenting yeast mingling with the faint hint of vanilla, chocolate, lemon and various spices from pastries cooling on a rack.

"Everything has its process," she continued, half to herself and half to the empty room that echoed with the ghosts of yesterday's chatter. "Bread, books, life... even saving lodges."

"Right," she said aloud, trying to sound more convinced than she felt. "It's all about the small steps."

If only she could believe those words when it came to matters of the heart. As her hands worked the dough, her mind tiptoed around the edges of her own longing—a longing not just for success, but for a love as consuming and profound as the romances she’d penned in the reality she’d left behind.

"Can't write about love without feeling it, right?" she laughed in a tone that was almost a whisper, self-deprecating, and almost lost amid the clink of measuring cups and the rustle of parchment paper.

"Though," Felicity pondered with a wistful glance toward the snow globe perched on the shelf, "perhaps there's magic yet to be found in Christmas Valley."

And as she placed the rounded loaf onto the baking tray, there was a tiny spark of something new within her—the first inkling that maybe she could help Jace.

"Rise," she whispered to the bread, envisioning not just the dough in the oven, but herself, her aspirations, her entire world. Today, she would rise, too.

The rich, heady aroma of freshly baked bread and other treats wafted through the air as Felicity slid the tray of buns out of the oven. A dusting of cocoa shimmered on their spiraled tops like a promise of warmth in the chill of the Vermont morning. She inhaled deeply, letting the scent anchor her to the moment, to the homey comfort of her bakery that doubled as a sanctuary.

"Ah, there they are! My day has officially begun," came the cheerful voice of Mayor Moorehouse as she breezed into the shop, the bell above the door announcing her like a herald.

"Good morning, Mayor," Felicity greeted as she transferred the buns to a display case, their allure undeniable even to someone who had once been an aspiring novelist and who had preferred the company of words to people. Felicity wondered what had happened to that woman and prayed she never had to return to being her.

"Tell me, Felicity, what's the secret ingredient this time?" The mayor leaned over the counter, her eyes twinkling with mirth as she peered at the pastries.

"Well, if I tell you what it is, it won’t be a secret any longer, will it?" Felicity replied, her tone light but her mind racing. This was her chance, an opportunity to not just serve buns but to serve a friend in need.

"Actually," she hesitated, wiping the flour from her hands, "I was hoping to talk to you about something important."

"Of course, dear. What's on your mind?" The mayor's expression softened into one of concern, sensing the shift in Felicity's demeanor.

"It's Jace," Felicity began, her voice barely more than a whisper, as if saying his name louder might make the reality of his troubles more tangible. "He needs our help. The lodge is in trouble, and I thought... maybe we could have an emergency town meeting? See if we can't come together for him?"

"Jace? Bless his heart." The mayor's brow creased. "An emergency meeting is a splendid idea. We'll do it at City Hall. This evening sound good?"

"Tonight? Yes, that would be wonderful." Relief washed over Felicity in a warm tide. "Thank you."

"Anything for one of our own," the mayor affirmed with a decisive nod. "You spread the word, and I'll get everything arranged. We'll fill the community room with concerned hearts and open minds."

"Thank you," Felicity repeated, her gratitude echoing in the small confines of the bakery.

By evening, the community room in City Hall had transformed into a hive of hushed conversations and furrowed brows. Villagers filled every available chair, some leaning against walls or crowding near the entrance. Murmurs of concern stitched a quilt of collective anxiety that settled heavily over the space.

Felicity stood at the back, her pulse thrumming in her ears as she surveyed the turnout. She'd spent the day spreading the word, her usual reticence giving way to an impassioned urgency that surprised even her. She was a baker, a would-be writer, a dreamer—not a leader. Yet here she was, trying to rally the town to action.

"Looks like the whole valley showed up," Mr. Puck whispered beside her, his presence a steadying force amidst the chaos.

"Seems so," Felicity murmured back, her gaze flitting across the sea of faces, each one etched with varying degrees of worry and determination. It was a portrait of a community united by a common cause, painted in real-time.

"Did I ever tell you about the first Christmas after I opened my store?" Mr. Puck continued, his voice low and soothing. "The snow was so heavy that year; we thought we'd be buried until spring. But then, the whole town came together—shovels in hand, laughter in the air. That's the magic of Christmas Valley, Felicity. It's not just in the snow globes or the clock in the village square or even the festive lights we put up at the holidays. It's the people."

"Magic," Felicity repeated softly, allowing herself to believe, if only for that night, that perhaps there was something extraordinary woven into the fabric of this place, something that might just save a lodge and, with it, herself. But the real question was: from which reality would she be saving herself?

Felicity's hands trembled slightly as she clutched the stack of her carefully prepared notecards, each one with a bullet point about the Northwind Lodge and its importance to Christmas Valley. She stepped up to the makeshift podium, the wood creaking under her weight, and faced the crowd. The scent of freshly brewed coffee mingled with a tangible current of anxiety that seemed to charge the air around her.

"Um, thank you all for coming tonight," Felicity began, her voice steadier than she felt. Her eyes met Jace's across the room, his green gaze holding a silent question as to what this was all about. She knew if she’d told Jace this was about him and the lodge, he’d never have allowed it. "I know those of us who know Jace have been worried about the Northwind Lodge, but I want us to remember how vital it is to our community."

She flipped through her notecards, each word she spoke painting a vivid picture of the lodge's role in Christmas Valley's life. How it drew tourists who filled their shops, the annual festivals hosted on its grounds, the countless memories made by the fireside. With each point, her confidence grew, her voice taking on a strength and passion she rarely allowed herself to showcase.

As if animated by her newfound zeal, townsfolk began to rise from their seats, sharing their own tales of the lodge. An elderly couple recounted renewing their vows beneath the twinkling lights of the grand hall; a young mother spoke of her child's first successful ski down the bunny slope, cheeks flushed with pride. At first, Jace had seemed embarrassed to be the subject of the meeting, but as people spoke, the look of hurt pride gave way to one of acceptance.

"During the short time he’s been here, Jace has never hesitated to help any of us," Felicity continued, her heart swelling at the chorus of agreement that rippled through the crowd. "Now it's our turn to return that kindness."

“But what about that development group. They say they can bring in at least ten times more business than just a family-owned lodge,” said the bank manager from the back.

“That might be true, but at what cost?” asked Felicity. “Do we really want Christmas Valley to become another Jackson Hole or Aspen?”

The crowd murmured in agreement. From that, the meeting turned into a lively brainstorming session, ideas bouncing like sparks among the villagers. They discussed fundraisers, volunteer repair crews, even a social media campaign to attract more visitors. And through it all, Felicity stood at the forefront, directing the energy, her own creativity igniting new strategies.

She surprised herself, this woman who shied away from public speaking, now orchestrating the salvation of a cherished place. Her words didn't just echo in the community room; they resonated in the very core of her being, awakening a leader within that she never knew existed.

"Look at what we can achieve when we come together," Felicity said, her eyes alight with a fire that mirrored the determination in every face before her. "Let's save the Northwind. Let's save Christmas Valley."

And as the applause erupted around her, for the first time, Felicity felt the true importance of belonging—not just as an observer or a dreamer, but as an integral thread woven into the tapestry of Christmas Valley.

As the last of her words lingered in the charged atmosphere, Felicity caught the eye of the mayor. The older woman's face was lit with a warmth that reached out and wrapped around Felicity like an embrace. Her eyes glimmered with unspoken pride as she turned to share a knowing look with Mr. Puck, who stood at the back of the room, his usually enigmatic expression softened into a nod of quiet approval.

Felicity's breath hitched, the moment revealing layers of this reality she had yet to uncover. This place held more secrets than the mysteries nestled in the pages of the books she cherished. There was a magic here, tangible and potent, woven through the very fabric of the town and its people—a magic that now seemed to acknowledge her role within it.

She had come to Christmas Valley by some means still unknown to her—a muse perhaps for her unfinished novel. Yet, as she looked out over the faces of the villagers—her neighbors—she understood that she'd become a living character in their collective story. She wasn't just the writer; she was part of the narrative, a vital character whose actions rippled with consequence and meaning.

The realization was as startling as it was empowering. Felicity was almost overwhelmed with the sensation of being rooted in something greater than herself. The walls she had built in her other life, the ones that safeguarded her from the risk of true belonging, began to crumble under the recognition of her newfound purpose.

"Thank you, everyone," she said, her voice carrying a tremor of emotion. "I know that together, we can save not just the Northwind, but the very heart of our community."

There was an electricity to the closeness of the townsfolk as they rallied around her ideas, their enthusiastic whispers merging with memories of the past and dreams for the future. In that moment, embraced by the feelings that enveloped her, Felicity accepted the truth: she wasn't playing a role anymore. She was where she had always been meant to be.

The meeting dissolved into a gentle chaos of camaraderie and shared purpose, leaving Felicity feeling like she was adrift in a sea of contentment. It was in this buoyant atmosphere that Mr. Puck approached her, his sharp eyes twinkling behind the spectacles perched on his nose.

"Miss Hart," he said, his voice carrying the hush of fallen snow, "might I steal you away for a moment? There's something at my store that requires your attention."

"Of course, Mr. Puck." She followed him, her pulse quickening with the anticipation of uncovering more secrets of Christmas Valley. The night air outside was crisp, biting at her flushed cheeks as they made their way down the sidewalk to his clockwork shop.

Once inside, the scent of freshly oiled gears and mystery enveloped her. Mr. Puck led her to the back of the store, where the snow globe clock that had so fascinated her sat on a shelf. Its intricate details seemed to dance under the warm glow of the overhead lights.

"Your interest in this piece," he began, his fingers tracing the glass sphere, "tells me there's more to you than meets the eye, Felicity."

She leaned closer, her breath fogging the glass slightly as she gazed at the miniature world within. "It's beautiful," she whispered, lost in the swirling snow that seemed to fall perpetually over the tiny village inside.

"Indeed," Mr. Puck agreed. "But it's more than just a trinket. This clock is a symbol of the magic that binds Christmas Valley. A magic that is now reaching out to you."

"Reaching out to me?" Felicity echoed, confusion lacing her words. Her heart throbbed in her chest, a mix of fear and excitement mingling within her.

"Christmas Valley has always had a way of choosing those who can see its wonders," Mr. Puck explained, his gaze steady on her face. "You've brought new life to our town, rallied us together when we needed it most. And now, the valley wants to offer you something in return."

Felicity looked up at him in question and expectation.

“A choice.” He paused, allowing his words to settle like the first snowflakes of winter. "You can continue living here, as you have been, enjoying the simple pleasures and community spirit, and embrace the true essence of our village. Or..." He hesitated, as if weighing the gravity of his next words, "you can return to your other reality where your dreams of becoming a famous author will be granted. Be warned, however, either choice will come at a price and will change everything."

"Change everything how?" The question came out barely above a whisper, her internal storm of doubt and desire raging as fiercely as any blizzard.

Mr. Puck smiled, a knowing, ancient expression that seemed to hold centuries of secrets. "If you stay, you'll become a part of its magic, its story. Your fate forever intertwined with the destiny of this place. But if you choose to leave, it will be as if you never were."

“How long do I have to decide?”

“You have to decide before the stroke of midnight on either Christmas or New Year’s Eve. It the tower clock in the village square rings its last knell to make the beginning of the new year, you will remain in Christmas Valley.”

Felicity's thoughts swirled like the snow in the globe. The idea of being so deeply connected to something was both terrifying and exhilarating. She realized then that Christmas Valley offered her not just a haven for inspiration but a chance to belong—to be part of a narrative much greater than any novel she could hope to write. It was an invitation to step into a life where reality and fantasy were indistinguishably woven together, each thread a testament to the enchantment of the Valley.